The Masquerade
by Viola Everseau
Summary: That night the rain pounded against the vast windows of the ballroom. Classical music played loudly. Gowns shuffled and people chattered. Heels of expensive shoes clacked on the marble floor. The silver platters that the waiters held clattered. All Joan heard was the thumping of her heart. At first Sherlock's keen eyes helped calm her nerves, but then he arrived...Moriarty.
1. Her Heart

The masquerade gala was held in one of the fanciest hotels in New York City. A prestigious orchestra all the way from Russia was playing on the stage of lacquered wood and red curtains. A magnificent chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Stoic waiters and waitresses walked the expanse of the room, silver platters of hors d'oeuvres held aloft in their hands. Gentle music drifted through the large ballroom of ladies in sweeping gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos. The music, albeit being peaceful, was also very loud. Especially since the dance floor was so close to the stage and its hidden speakers.

To Joan, it actually sounded quite threatening. Her heart thumped loudly and her clammy hands sweat underneath the silk gloves Sherlock gave her to wear. He had managed to conjure them from the attic of the brownstone along with a dusty lavender gown and matching lilac mask. Joan couldn't deduce why he had a dress in his attic. Was it Irene's? Or his mother's? Either way it was going to have to do. None of her dresses were nearly as expensive enough for an evening such as this.

Joan's black heels clicked against the sleek marble floor. The sound may have been lost throughout the large room filled with classical music and chatting couples, but to Joan they thundered in her ears and matched the roar of her frightened heart. She didn't fit in here. She was out of her element.

The heels of Sherlock's shoes clacked too, yet he seemed much calmer in the way he held Joan's waist while they danced and looked around nonchalantly.

But when he turned his head and looked at Joan through the eyeholes in his white mask Joan knew that inside he wasn't as calm as he appeared. Something behind his keen eyes, something inside him was roiling.

How did she get herself into this mess? She didn't know how to slow dance. Every so often her feet stumbled on her long skirt of taffeta and chiffon and Sherlock would have to catch her and hold her steady, and act as if nothing had happened, as though they were just another rich couple. Sherlock played quite the part though, walking Joan around with her arm in his and sipping wine, chatting to the servants and men as if he belonged there. And once Joan thought about it, he did kind of belong. He spent his childhood in luxury, living in a mansion in the countryside of England and going to an expensive boarding school, though Sherlock might not have thought of it as "luxury". Sherlock was different than the others. He was definitely different.

But on a passing glance she wouldn't have been able to tell. She grudgingly admitted that he did seem handsome in a tuxedo. And when Joan walked down the stairs of the brownstone in the purple gown with her hair up in a bun, what did Sherlock mean when he said, "My! Watson, I must say you don't look unattractive tonight. I'm sure Clyde would agree."?

It was as if they were actually going on a date of sorts…but they weren't.

Sherlock drew Joan closer to him as they danced and leant his head down to hers. "Relax. You will only draw attention to us by being nervous." His warm breath tickled her ear and she shuddered.

"I'm _not_ nervous."

"You may say one thing but your body language tells a whole other story. You hand is clenching my shoulder and hand very tightly and not only are you stumbling every so often but you keep glancing around to see if we're being watched."

Joan relaxed her grip. He was right. She shouldn't be nervous.

"I take it you never went to a ball such as this before."

"Of course not. The closest I've been to was my high school prom."

"Ah yes. Where sweaty teens rub against each other in there baggy trousers and mini dresses that might as well be chemises. Well Watson I must say you didn't miss anything admirable. _Father_ used to take me to balls such as these often when I was little to show me off like some type of handbag or new puppy." He made a retching sound.

But Joan wasn't listening. She looked around the room at the ladies adorned in jewels and the elderly men talking boisterously, trying to observe, trying to see what Sherlock saw. "Where _is_ he?"

"Moriarty? Ah yes, I also noticed that he doesn't seem to be here at this party…that is to say that he hasn't arrived _yet_. I overheard the gentlemen at your five o'clock talking about a man arriving within the hour. It seems they were talking about M. In the meantime we're going to have to formulate a plan of what to do once he gets here."

Joan stumbled in her black heels again. Fortunately Sherlock caught her around the waist once more and rightened her. They continued dancing to the lull of the music. Actually, Sherlock was more of the one dancing while Joan just allowed herself to be led along. He even spun her around once and proceeded to dip her gracefully.

She had to admit; for once it was actually nice having Sherlock there to calm her thumping frightened heart.

"As I was finely explaining my father used to take me to galas such as these. As a result he hired me an instructor in the practice of ballroom dancing. Not my favorite hobby but I must say, there are times when a detective is required to go undercover. In these times it is nice to know and understand the art of dancing. You must observe the environment around you so that you can better mirror the-"

"Sherlock!"

"Hm?"

Joan moved her arm around Sherlock's neck and leaned closer towards his sharp eyes and the stubble that lined his jaw. "Look to your right," she whispered anxiously.

He pursed his lips and did so. Joan noticed that this time _his_ grip tightened in hers as he muttered venomously, "M."


	2. His Anchor

Sherlock's heart began to beat faster. He ground his teeth. That had to be M. Sure, he had never truly seen the villain but he did hear Sebastian Moran's frail words as he leant over the man's bleeding body.

_"It was him, the bastard! Dark-dark skinned…your age…a scar on his-his cheek. Get… him! Get your revenge. It's too-too late for me."_

"Sherlock."

He felt Joan's soft lips brush his ear and he bit his tongue. He relaxed his grip on her waist and her hand. "Yes?"

"What's the plan?"

"Huh?"

"These masks aren't good enough to disguise us-"

"Ah yes, well we have the element of surprise on our hand. It gives us a slight advantage…other than that…well, see I was hoping that we would formulate a plan once we were here…Keep your head down and stay alert, let's try to move that way."

He shifted his feet and began leading and dancing Joan over to the far side of the ballroom where a dark skinned man in an elaborately feathered mask resided. The faintest hint of a scar peaked out from beneath the mask.

His heart began to beat faster and his blood boiled. Outside it began to rain. That man, that man killed the one woman who ever loved him! The one woman who he had ever loved, _would_ ever love!

The rain pounded angrily on the room's vast windows. The wind screamed.

"Sherlock we should call the police-"

"Watson, I told you why that plan of action is not an option. Gregson and Bell adamantly believe that the note that was pinned to the body of Sebastian Moran speaks the truth. They are wrong, Moran wasn't Moriarty! He was set up, he was killed! They won't listen; they said that I was letting my emotions get the better of me, I saw Moran before he died! I heard him sp-"

"-Sherlock. Look at me!"

He turned his head and glared at Joan, but his glare quickly softened. It would be alright; this was Joan, his companion, his partner. Her teeth were clenched tight, scolding. Yet her brow was furrowed, concerned, maybe even scared. He gazed into her beautiful dark eyes and breathed in her scent. She kept him from getting high, from relapsing, from getting drunk. She was his anchor and now, once again she was going to keep him from losing control, from getting lost. She was going to keep him grounded.

"It's going to be alright, do you understand me?" she said sternly.

"Yes Watson, I understand completely," he muttered in reply, and then as an afterthought, "Now is not the time for revenge."

She nodded. Sometimes Joan confused him, which was certainly something to marvel at. Not many people or events confused him. Irene may have been the only woman he would ever love, but there was something he definitely felt for Joan, and it perplexed him greatly. At times it even scared him; he didn't want to care for someone, he didn't want to put someone in danger. He didn't want to get hurt, not again, not anymore.

All of a sudden Joan gasped as the lights flickered and turned off. People shrieked and shouted. Joan tripped again and this time Sherlock didn't react fast enough to catch her. The room plunged into darkness. Chaos ensued.


	3. The Shoe

The musicians on the stage dropped their instruments in surprise. Cellos, violins, harps, violas, and other instruments smashed and splintered as they fell to the wooden stage. The speakers screeched as the musician's microphones fell out of frozen hands. Ladies screamed and men shouted. Waiters and servers dropped silver platters which clanked to the marble floor. Glass shattered as people dropped their wine glasses in shock.

Rain hit the glass windows in violent streaming torrents.

"Watson!? _Watson!_" In the dark he frantically searched the floor for the missing companion, bumping into frenzied men and women, not caring at all but for one thing. The muffled orange glow of street lamps and cars shone through the windows vaguely, blinking in and out of view, barely enough to eliminate the dark.

"**_Watson!_**" He shouted like a mad man; he could feel blood rushing to his head, and he was sure that his veins would burst. He stopped and took a shaky breath. He had to calm down. That's what his partner would tell him to do. He had to think.

He breathed and turned in a circle, sweaty hands clenching in fists, hysterical eyes roaming over the looming shadows and dim figures moving chaotically. Where had she gone? Just as he was convincing himself that she was alright he took a step and stumbled on something. He looked down and his mouth dropped open.

It took a couple seconds for his mind to register what it was he picked up with trembling hands, clenching onto tightly as if it was the last thing that would keep him alive. It was an elegant black heeled shoe, with straps and a small zipper, a small shoe for a petite foot. It was Joan's.


	4. Blink

It wasn't her fault. She didn't know how to slow dance, so she had let Sherlock lead and dance her to the other end of the room. When the lights flickered off he had frozen abruptly causing Joan to stumble on her long skirt and high heels. Sherlock didn't catch her, but somebody else did, rough arms under hers. She gasped as something wet and cold covered her mouth. It was a cloth, cold and moist, smothering her. She struggled and tried to escape as she realized that the cloth was doused in a familiar putrid stench, something she had smelt dozens of times at the hospital on patients that were unconscious, waiting for a surgeon's scalpel to cut them open. And all of a sudden she realized, as she struggled, that the lights couldn't have just short circuited because of the storm outside. The timing was too perfect; ballroom, Moriarty, storm, lights, speakers, kidnapper. She elbowed the man behind her in the gut and stomped on his foot. The man "oof'ed" and she tried to scream and get away but someone was strangling her and glass was shattering and the speakers were screeching and it was too dark and no one could see her and no one could hear her and it wasn't her fault; what happened next. It wasn't her fault that she fell limp in the criminal's arms and her eyes rolled into the back of her head and everything went dark and silent and she was dragged away, alway from the chaos into a different kind of darkness, leaving nothing behind, not a trace of evidence but one black shoe.

blink…blink…blink…

Foggy and faded images hazily flashed in her mind; memories from the past.

_I know about Irene._

_I did not take her passing well._

_her passing_

_I did not take her passing well._

blink…blink blink…

Another scene, another place, another time.

_You have much to learn about the art of self-preservation._

_Realizing that you were in physical danger was difficult for me. If anything ever happened to you I'm not sure that I could forgive myself._

_I'm not sure that I could forgive myself._

_you were in physical danger_

_I'm not sure that I could forgive myself._

blink blink

_some sort of penance_

blink

_it has its costs_

blink…blink…blink blink…

_I'm going to miss this…well, not so much this…but this…I think what you do is amazing…I'm sorry our last days together had to go so poorly._

_our last days together_

_our last days together_

_our last days_

_together_

blink blink

blink

That damned lightbulb wouldn't stop _blinking_. How many times had she told Sherlock to get a new lighbulb for the foyer of the brownstone. How many times?

But wait, this couldn't be the brownstone…right?

No, no it couldn't.

It was much too dark…and too _quite_. Living with Sherlock, it was never quite.

But wait, where was Sherlock?

Where was he?

No, where was she?


End file.
